Darrell’s Apartment

I just wrote this one this morning. Finished it about 5 minutes ago, as a matter of fact. One thing that concerns me about doing a project like this is that the editing process, to be effective, usually requires the writer to gain a little distance from his work–meaning that it should sit for a time so that the writer doesn’t blur what is on the page with what is in his head. The result of writing, editing and publishing in such a short span as these are, is typos. I don’t have anyone acting as a first reader, so I end up giving it my best shot. I have noticed a couple typos, going over some of the earlier scenes I’ve done, and have corrected them. I guess that’ll work.

Anyway, here’s a glimpse at what Darrell did, when he stopped in to pick up a couple things…

* * * * *

I opened the apartment door and walked in. The place was a wreck, as I expected.  On the floor I saw the food encrusted cat dish and dried out water bowl.  “Mom, where’s Ginger?  What happened to her?”

“Hrmmph,” came from the couch.  My mother.  Probably wasted, drunk, or both—ain’t I lucky to have her?  She was laying on the couch, face down in a wrinkled tumble of dirty clothes, half dressed, her legs entangled with some guy I’ve never seen before.  It’s always some guy I’ve never seen before.

“Cat probably got smart and left,” I said.  They shifted on the couch and the man put his arm around my mom, his hand on her breast.  On the coffee table next to a candle, I saw a spoon and thought about jamming it into one of his closed eyelids.  Then I figured, looking at the tracks on the man’s arm, that mom deserved him.  She deserved having some strung out junkie leach off of her until she was tapped out, then he’d kick her to the curb because the dope and alcohol are always more important.  I wanted her to feel what that was like.

I bumped the coffee table trying to step over a jumbled pile of take-out boxes and knocked over a half bottle of beer.  It gurgled into the matted carpet and I didn’t care.  I wouldn’t be coming back.

I opened my bedroom door and was hit by the smell of urine and vomit.  In my bed—my bed—was another stranger, lying piss-drunk in a pool beer, both digested and undigested.  I told myself that I wouldn’t be staying; it wasn’t worth it.  I waded through dirty clothes and garbage that wasn’t my own and opened the closet door.  The inside of my closet, untouched, was the only part of my room I recognized.  I grabbed my backpack and put some clothes into it.  High on the shelf, I took down my Nike shoe box and opened it.  I grabbed my pictures of Dad, Casey, before she got sick, and even the ones of Mom, too.  When she really was Mom.  I also stuffed in my old journal and Dad’s letters from overseas.

As I shut the closet door, my old baseball bat slid along the wall and hit the floor with a clank.  The drunk on the bed stirred.

“Who th’fug are you?” he slurred.  “Ged th’fug ow my room, ahzhole!”  He sat up, shirtless and scrawny.  Jailhouse tattoos scribbled up and down both of his boney arms.  His sunken face was pasted with puked-up beer and half-chewed fried rice.

That’s when I snapped, I guess.  That’s when I picked up the bat.

∞

The Stone Floor

I live in an old house with a large basement. The basement’s floor is made up of large, square sections of bluestone that were set in place about 130 years ago. My kids and I have fantasized about what could be hidden beneath them.

* * * * *

Jeffery knelt on the bluestone floor, whisking away bits of sawdust and other debris with the side of his hand. He lightly tapped a three foot square floor stone with the rubberized handle of his hammer and looked up at his daughter. “Here?”

“Nope,” Bri told him. She stood there in her dress-up clothes–purple sequin blouse, red velvet capri pants , a pink feathered scarf dangling down and Hollywood sunglasses resting above her ginger bangs. “This one. This is where it starts,” she said, tapping the stone next to the first with her red shoe.

“Okay.” He got up and wheeled the snowblower off of the bluestone she picked. It was nearly four feet long and three feet wide. He picked up the crowbar and slid the flat end into the crack between the two sections, pausing to look up at his daughter. She was looking down at the stone, her face no longer cheerful, holding her breath. She pulled her glasses down. “Honey, you should probably go back upstairs. Maybe your brother’ll take some pictures of you in your outfit.”

“I wanna see, Daddy,” she said, her voice thoughtful, distant.

“You know what? I’m thinking maybe I’m not gonna do this,” Jeffery laid the crowbar on the center of the stone she had picked. Then he lied. “Sometimes your dreams are just that, honey. Dreams. It’s probably not a good idea to go digging up the basement floor if I don’t have to.” He wheeled the snowblower back to its spot. “Besides, that big heavy stone will probably never set back in its place right once I lift it.”

“I know its there, Daddy,” her tone was disappointed, but still shy of whining. “I’m just going to see it again, I know it.”

Jeffery led his daughter out of the basement, lifting her scarf from behind so it wouldn’t drag. “How ’bout seeing some ice cream? I’ll take you down to Skippy’s.”

“Do I have to change?”

“Heck no, I want everybody to see my daughter, the famous Hollywood starlet . “

“Daaaddy,” she giggled a little.

“Just be nice when they ask for your autograph.”

“Ok, I will,” she said.

Before shutting out the light, Jeffery looked back at the crowbar lying on the stone and thought of what he’d be doing later once Bri was tucked in, dreaming her dreams.

∞

Sirens

The sirens brought Jack out of his sleep. It was a long wail that kept rising, never reaching its crescendo. His fillings seemed to double in size, pushing roots and nerves deep into his jaw and an agonizing white light filled his head. The house shuddered from its foundation as if it were dragged across the ground. At last, the sirens ended with a boom that sounded not unlike thunder. The light behind Jack’s eyes dissipated, and the ache in his jaw fell away like water. Now wide awake, Jack knew all to well that it was no siren. If only.

He jumped off the couch, dashed to the front window and parted the curtain to see where it had happened this time. This was a close one. You had to look carefully, he knew. When these happened out in nature, it was nearly impossible to tell by sight, but here in town…

A quick glance out the window showed nothing unusual. He wasn’t surprised to see curtains on the other houses parting as well. Here we all are, like chickens in a coop, looking to see who had gotten unlucky this time.

Jack went out front. Mrs Watsburg across the street was coming outside also and Jack nodded, but she ignored him. He looked at the row of houses across the street. The Watsburgs house, the Finley’s, the Maycomber’s, the Allen’s–no, that was the Sterling’s. The Allen’s were gone. Mostly, anyway.

He walked up the street, others coming out of their houses. Eyes were on Jack as he approached the scene. The Allen’s house, a brick ranch, was supposed to be between the Maycomber’s and the Sterling’s. Now the Maycomber’s and the Sterling’s were next to each other. Their lawns were disjointed; an eight-inch cliff of raw earth and stone, with a small black divot in between. The street took an un-natural bend towards the divot. Standing in the center of it all was the front half of a tricycle and a perfectly cut corner of the Allen’s house. The bricks and the tricycle both sat steaming in the early evening chill.

Off in the distance, a low whine had started. As it rose to a wail, Jack felt a pang of guilt as he wondered for whom luck had run out.

∞

The Former Edna Langly

This scene was conceived Saturday when my kids and I saw part of a cheesy movie on Sci Fi. It’s a bit of fun. As for not posting in a couple days…well, technically, I am writing a scene each day (sometimes I write a couple and edit them over the next couple days) but my home/work schedule makes it tough for me to get them posted on Sundays and Mondays. I’ll try to figure something out. Still, as long as I’m still writing, I’m happy. I figured in just the 2 or 3 weeks I’ve been doing this blog, I wrote nearly 6,000 words of scenes. For me that’s quite a milestone–more than I’ve written in a couple years.

Anyway, here’s today’s post. Not hard to detect the cheesy roots from whence it came…

* * * * *

Josh flung a coarse powder into the vampire’s face. There was a scalding hiss as it recoiled, as if jerked on a cord. The creature, once Edna Langly from three houses down, cursed them in a tongue as ancient and removed from humanity as was itself. The larger grains of the powder bore into its skin, sizzling and dissolving as it rendered the creature’s flesh into hot pudding. Fine bits of powder simply ignited in the air around the vampire, singeing hair and igniting the curtains. The putrid run-off soaked into their carpet and the ceiling was blackened from acrid smoke.

Josh and Leanne gagged together, breathing through the fabric of their clothing. Leanne nearly vomited down the inside of her shirt, while Josh grabbed a throw off the sofa and beat the flaming curtains, gasping for air as he went. Leanne stared through stinging, watery eyes in disbelief at their former neighbor. Sweet Mrs. Langly, for whom just two weeks ago Leanne had helped find her cat, was now no more than a steaming, reeking pile of liquefied flesh and bone. One leg, intact up to the knee, stood in the center of the pile still nestled within its shoe. Something beside it gurgled and the leg fell over with a wet plop. Leanne felt warmth on her leg as it splashed.

“What the f**k did you throw on her?” She was wiping the goo off her shin with a pillow.

“Kitty litter,” Josh said flatly, staring at the mess.

“Kitty litter? After all that crap about crosses, wooden stakes and holy water, and you can do this with kitty litter?”

“I had it blessed.”

“Holy Kitty Litter? That’s retarded!”

“There wasn’t any holy water. The church had the font taken out. Kitty litter was all I had in my car, so I convinced Father Carrington to bless it for me.”

Leanne thought of the long night ahead. Already, she could hear movement downstairs. Hushing her tone, she moved closer to her husband. “I hope you got the big bag.”

“Don’t worry, I always buy in bulk,” Josh said.

∞

Voodoo Grin

This one I tried to do with all dialogue. Just a couple of descriptive bits at the beginning to establish things, but that was it.

* * * * *

Quick & Speedy Mart. Milford, NY. 8pm.

“Fifteen pennies. Thanks honey, see ya.” Bren closed the cash drawer and turned back to the assistant manager.

“What else?” Mindy still looked worried. “How ’bout the wet floor signs, were they out? I don’t wanna get sued over this.”

“No. The floors weren’t wet. I told you–”

“She had to slip on something, was there a spill?”

“Mindy, I told you, the lady didn’t slip. She didn’t fall down until after it happened.”

“So, a lady walks into MY store breaks her back. But not from falling? Sounds great.”

“Look, if you want me to say the signs were out, fine. I’ll even get Doug to tell whoever that he had just mopped the floor. That Shaky Joe had come through, spilled his coffee for the um-teenth time and the signs got put out. Will that do it?”

“Yes, actually, it would.”

“Great, except that still ain’t what happened.”

“Ok, how does a lady’s back snap in two, before she even hits the floor?”

“How? Don’t know. But I bet who does.”

“Who?”

“You know that weird guy? The one that’s been coming in the past few mornings?

“Weirdo in the long jacket?”

“Yep.”

“Why’d he know?”

“I think he had something to do with it.”

“He attack her or something?”

“No.”

“Then, what?”

“Well, things were slow this morning. He was sitting over there, by the window. Bought a coffee about an hour before, and was just sitting there looking out the window. I thought he was looking for a ride or something.”

“He say anything?”

“I went over to put more donuts in the case and asked if he wanted a refill, tried to make small talk. I asked if he needed me to call a cab or something, he looked at me–I tell you, his face was as ugly and ragged as…you ever see that ‘world’s ugliest dog’ on the Internet?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s what he looked like. Long scraggly hair, patchy beard, about three teeth, and he stunk. Smelled like old tacos.”

“And he said…”

“Right, he says ‘No, I’m waiting’. No smile, nothing. And you know me, I try to be friendly. Not this guy…miserable.”

“What’s this got to do with the lady?”

“Well, that’s when things get kinda fuzzy.”

“Fuzzy? He did do something, right?”

“Sort of. This lady walks in, and finally he ain’t starin’ out the window no more. He’s looking at her, all googly-eyed. She comes up to the counter, tells me she’s got thirty-five in gas, grabs a croissant and a peppermint patty–all the while this weirdo is gawking at her like she had a duck on her head, ya know?”

“Did he say anything to her?”

“Nope. She pays for her gas and stuff, walks to the door, and I look at the creep and suddenly, he starts smiling.”

“That’s it? He smiles?”

“I ain’t never seen anybody smile like that before–not no happy smile, like this,” Bren poses, grinning widely. “It was…I don’t know…crooked, I guess. The edges of his mouth turned way up and those nasty teeth of his were sticking out. Looked like an old beat up picket fence that ain’t been painted in ’bout fifty years. Then there was a loud SNAP! And a scream. I looked at the lady, and she was standing, bent all the way over, ‘cept she wasn’t bent over like, you know, forward. She was bent…sideways. Like she meant to touch her toes but went the wrong way. Then she fell over. No slipping, just dropped to the floor, yellin’ her head off.”

“And the weirdo?”

“When I looked back at him, he was refillin’ his coffee. He put six quarters on the counter and left. Said he’d take me up on that refill. Even bought a donut. Didn’t smile, though. Glad he didn’t.”

∞

Byron on the Run

You ever wonder how you would react to a scary situation? Byron wondered that too. Then he found out.

* * * * *

Byron had always said that if he heard something groaning in the moonlit dark of the cemetery, he would do either of two things: One, run in the exact opposite direction until stopped by a person or an obstacle.  Or two, simply unload into his pants, and cry.  It never occurred to him that he might do both.

He ran sluggishly at first, leaving the backhoe behind.  His soiled pants tugged oddly at him as he went.  The groaning was more like a strained wheeze, but that made sense.  Something that just dug itself up would most likely have its lungs full of dirt and phlegm, and a groan wouldn’t be possible.  He laughed at himself.  Like everything else could be. 

A straight run would take him towards the back side of Lakeview, where there were houses and the Maple Street entrance.  In this newer section of the cemetery, the moon reflected off the gravestones as pale blue orbs that bobbed as he ran.  The wheezing became more distant, but he had no intention of stopping.  He would make it to Maple Street, go around the block to the main entrance and drive home.  The backhoe could be put away in the daylight just as well as the dark.

Byron jumped over a plot of small flat stones, hopping left and right like tires in an obstacle course.  He rounded the Covington mausoleum–three more rows and he would reach the Maple Street entrance.  The tall elms along Byron’s right cast moonlight down like a spiderweb over the remaining stones and grass ahead.  Byron darted between two tall monuments and jumped over a short one–only to see a dirt pile with artificial turf encircling a hole.  With no time to curse Kenny for not putting up the barrier, he lost his footing on the slick plastic and tumbled headfirst into an open grave.

∞

Solitary Clyde

Another gap before posting. Sorry about that. This piece is a bit more surreal than the others.

* * * * *

The small window of the cell showed only sky; mostly pale blue, or gray at times, but always sky.  When the clouds were gone was the worst, because then the opening was just a bright blue square; the same color of their shirts.  That’s when he knew they were standing outside, spying on him.  Clyde sat opposite the window, motionless and slack-jawed on the floor.  An occasional sound could be heard outside the steel door, but most noise came as sublime echoes, carried along the facility’s plumbing.  Today, the window showed him clouds, with their soft, pillowy forms drifting across the small opening on a pale blue canvas.  As he sat studying the clouds for meaning, a bird flew by.  In the split second it took for the bird to travel across the window, Clyde memorized it.  Black wings, gray beak, white chest feathers and a crest on its head that was peppered gray.  He would study those characteristics for their symbolic meaning at another time.

For now, though, he considered the bird itself.  It was a gift, surely.  Though cruel as He is, Arhaad –or the Minute God, as Clyde had come to know Him– had allowed this small crumb of hope to be held.  For truly, if Clyde were to slip completely into madness, he would lose his appreciation for the power of such a god.

Countless years of confinement had shown Clyde what Arhaad was capable of. He had devoured the Hour God and reduced the Day God to a mere figurehead. The Year God? A joke. Arhaad had rendered him irrelevant long ago.

Seconds were a whip in His great hand, and He cracked them out at His leisure.  Yes, Clyde knew, Arhaad ruled them all.   His other hand gripped Clyde’s heart, doling out beats for as long as it amused him. Clyde could only wait for Arhaad to tire of him, keeping his dripping heart as a token.

Sometimes Clyde believed he was no longer on Earth –that his keepers, who only looked human, had somehow removed him so completely from the old society that the planet’s surface no longer existed.  At times, only Arhaad knew when, the keepers would take him to another room.  This was a larger one they called ‘the yard’.  In this room, the entire ceiling was sky.  Four bleak cement walls with an iron door and, of all things, a basketball hoop.  He would feel them watching as he picked up the basketball.  Watching to see what the real human would do with it.  Clyde wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, for he was no animal to be studied.  He would just lay on the concrete floor, small stones biting into his shirtless back,  and stare at the sky wishing Arhaad would tire of them too.

∞

The back door

Just wrote this one this morning. Back when I was growing up in New Jersey, one of the sweetest elderly women I’ve ever known lived next to my family. It was neighborhood custom to knock on her back door and she would answer with cookies. Most of the kids within a few houses range took her up on it daily, myself included. Of course, I’ve managed to take one of my most cherished childhood memories and twist it. If my Mom reads this, I’ll be answering for it.

* * * * *

Timmy stood outside Millie’s back door, not daring to knock.  The patio was littered with yard debris from last week’s thunderstorms and the grass was higher than Millie usually allowed.  It looked like she had gone away.

An odor, nothing like the usual scents of cinnamon and ginger, wafted down from the open screen above the door.  It was a foul, sweet smell, and to Timmy’s young nose it reminded him of rotten eggs and syrup.  He held up his fist again, poised to knock on the painted wood.  A rustling came from inside.  Timmy lowered his hand and pressed his ear to the wood.  A weak shuffle, like that of slippered feet.  He also heard a metallic creak and the rattling of pans.  Kitchen sounds.  Maybe she was there.

Timmy gave the door a tentative rap.  Nothing.

He knocked again. “Millie?” Still no answer.

The shuffling continued, thumping now and then.  Shadows moved behind the curtains of the side window.  She was definitely in the kitchen.  Usually, when he knocked she would pass by the window, sometimes parting the curtain to see who it was, and he would hear the familiar click of the latch, followed by the sweetest aroma found only in the homes of the world’s most fabled grandmothers.  This time, however, the shadows only gave a hint of themselves; never getting closer.

He decided to give it one more try.  If she didn’t answer, Timmy would simply give up and go back home.  No cookies today, that’s all.  He opened the screen door and gave a rather firm knock on the thick wood. It was much louder than he intended and Timmy expected to hear her drop whatever she was holding, startling the poor woman.

No answer.  The shadows continued in their monotony.  He put his ear to the door.  There was a dry chattering sound coming from the kitchen.  It was an uneven, random noise with the irregularity of a twitch, or muscle spasm.   Timmy quietly closed the door and tried to peek through the window.  He was provided a narrow view of a short hallway, walls lined with photos, that led into the kitchen and continued down into the living room.  His view into the kitchen was limited to a strip of floor and the side of a cabinet and counter top.  The linoleum floor that led into the kitchen became increasingly gobbed with greasy clumps of cookie dough, both smeared and rolled into the other clutter that littered the kitchen.  Movement by the cabinet revealed a brief view of Millie’s nightgown, followed by her feet.  One foot wore a blue stained slipper, and the other was bare.  Her small toe, clearly broken, pointed out in a different direction from the rest.  Her foot, caked with dried blood and sugar, stepped into a clump of dough, squishing out from between her white, pasty toes.  She moved out of view and the noise of the pans and the strange chattering continued without pause.

Crap, he thought, it’s happened to Millie, now. Timmy turned and ran to tell his parents.

∞

Face to the glass

Here’s another Sci-fi themed scene. It occurred to me as a cool concept. I’m not as well read on my Sci-fi as I am my Horror, so I don’t know how original a concept this is. Anyway, if it hasn’t been done before, here it is:

* * * * *

The apartment door closed. The sharp click of the latch pierced an uncomfortable silence.

“What were you thinking, PJ?” Leo looked down at his son. Both anger and concern fought for control of his tone.

“I said I was sorry, Dad.”

“I know you’re sorry. That don’t answer my question. What were you thinking, going out that far?”

“I –”

“The Border Ring is there for a reason. Things aren’t stable between there and the edge.”

“I just wanted to see it for myself. Not vids, but for real.”

Concern was beginning to win out. What kid didn’t want to press his face up against the glass? To see the outside as it truly is?

“Well, you didn’t get hurt, that’s good,” he looked his son up and down. Tall and thin, like himself at that age. It was hard on kids these days, Leo thought. But that was probably true no matter the generation. Kids seemed so much more curious. They starved for life’s experiences; forever sheltered in the tera-domes, with their artificial gravity and filtered sunlight. Remnants of the way life used to be, slowly floating by on the wind currents outside of the massive domes. Still, what could be gained by seeing such things?

“You’ll have to stay in the apartment for a while. You know that, don’t you?”

“How long?” PJ spoke softer, resignation in his voice.

“Well, because of your little adventure, the whole building will be paying double taxes for at least nine months–”

“Nine months?” He yelled. “I’ll go nuts in here, Dad! It’s bad enough–”

“Don’t worry, after about two months things will cool down. They’ll be a lot less likely to bite your head off.”

“Even two months…”

“Face it, you’re not very popular right now. Give people a little time to get over it.”

PJ’s head slowly sank. “You’re right.” He really didn’t want to show his face out there. Not right now, anyway.

“Look, PJ, in the fall when the grav-quakes are gone, I’ll take you out on the Tetherails. You’ll get to see what it’s like for yourself then. I’ve been saving up.”

“Even now, with the taxes?”

“We can still manage it. You not going anywhere is going to save us money.”

There was a long silence, each one lost in thought.

“Dad?” PJ said, finally. The gleam in his eye, though somewhat doused, still managed to flicker.

“Yes?”

A small smile crept up one side of his face. “I think I saw a truck, at least half of one. It was cool.”

Leo felt his own grin begin to bloom, “I bet it was.”

∞

Laughlin, again

Here’s the other scene I had.  Again, it kind of ties into the Layers thing.

* * * * *

For Charles Wiggins, two houses down, point of view is somewhat different.  He keeps his windows up and the blinds down.  The morning news is low, filling his kitchen shadows with a dull monotone.  Charles isn’t listening to the news.  Drifting in through the windows is the sounds of the children from across the river.  It’s morning recess and the schoolyard is buzzing with activity.  Dozens of little minds and bodies racing and darting like small birds.  Each with a voice that wants to be heard above the rest.

To Charles, the sudden shrieks of delight reach his ears not as the morning release of pent up energy at grade school recess, but as something else.

On this morning, he pictures them burning.  The soft sand and smooth blacktop doused in gasoline while the the gate is locked.  The ground is lit afire in his mind and the screams drifting into his window is that of children without a hope or future.  To Charles, they are shrieking each other’s names as they claw at the chain link fence, trying to climb over best friends and fellow classmates;  the flames licking their soft skin.  Eventually, the screaming stops.

Charles finishes his coffee and puts the cup in the sink.  His collie, old Pearl, lies still in the corner of the kitchen.  Her only movement is her eyes as they follow him across the room.

“Lazy dog.  Why you keep living is beyond me,” he tells her.  Then Charles grabs both his car keys and the school bus’s keys.  Recess was nearly over.  In a half hour the AM kids will start loading up.

∞